Ritual in the Dark Read Free Page A

Harris.
    My Life and Loves. I never read Harris, is it good?
    It’s quite astonishing.
    How? In what way?
    I never cease to gasp with amazement at the way he leaps in and out of bed. I wonder whether such men really exist.
    Why not?
    I mean with such a promiscuous appetite. It astounds me. You remember that Nijinsky slept with his wife for several nights before he made love to her? That’s natural. That’s the way it should be.
    You’re interested in Nijinsky?
    Yes.
    Why? You never saw him dance.
    Sorme stared into his glass, trying to find the words that expressed it precisely. It was impossible; he didn’t know Nunne well enough. He said:
    It’s difficult to explain. . .
    Wait. Let’s get some more drinks first.
    Not for me. I can’t drink any more beer.
    Have a scotch, then.
    All right, but let me. . .
    No, no, no. You sit still.
    He signalled to the waiter, calling: Two large scotches and two dries.
    Go on, Gerard. About Nijinsky.
    Sorme asked, laughing:
    Why are you so anxious to make me talk? What do I know that might interest you?
    A great many things, I should imagine. I already know some interesting things about you.
    Such as?
    That you’re twenty-six, have a small independent income, and don’t like work. That is interesting in itself. Too much leisure demoralises most people. You can see it in their faces. You, on the other hand, have an interesting face. It is not a self-indulgent face. Immediately, I wonder: What does he do with his leisure? You haven’t enough money to waste it flying aeroplanes, or gadding off to other countries, as I do. What do you do with your leisure?
    Sorme said: Nothing much. I try to do nothing.
    The waiter set the drinks down on the table. Nunne dropped a pound note on the tray.
    Prosit, Nunne said, raising the glass.
    Cheers, Sorme said.
    The waiter handed Nunne his change and Nunne dropped a coin on to his tray. Sorme drank a large mouthful of the scotch. Tears came to his eyes. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously, then, noticing the colour of the handkerchief, pushed it hastily back into his pocket. Nunne looked up from the book on the table, and tossed it over to Sorme.
    I can’t imagine that sort of thing appealing to you.
    Sorme shrugged, and emptied the bottle of ginger ale into the scotch. It was a considerable improvement.
    I read a lot.
    Nunne smiled at the evasion. He sipped his drink thoughtfully, staring past Sorme’s head. He asked slowly:
    What is this book you’re writing about?
    I’ll give you one guess, Sorme said.
    Nijinsky?
    Right.
    Really? Does it cover any of the same ground as my book?
    Not really. This is a novel.
    He drank down half of the scotch and dry ginger, and realised that he was feeling relaxed and contented. Now he was no longer worried about the nature of Nunne’s interest in him, he was beginning to like Nunne.
    Tell me about your novel, Nunne said.
    I can’t do that. It’s not really about Nijinsky. It’s about Nijinsky’s state of mind.
    What do you know about that?
    He believed in himself. Most people don’t.
    Half a dozen more people had come into the bar, businessmen. A young man with a young woman in furs.
    Sorme felt the talk rising in him, checked only by a desire not to bore Nunne. He leaned forward, saying:
    When I think about Nijinsky, then I look at these people, I feel a sort of incredulousness. You know he says in the Diary, Life is difficult because no one knows the importance of it. I picture him walking round the streets at night like a high-pressure boiler, almost bursting. . .
    He stopped; Nunne’s face was perfectly attentive, listening with a gravity that was flattering to him.
    You see, I see it this way. Supposing that at the end of your life you had a vision of everything—everything in the universe, all at once. A sort of vision of God. It would justify everything. If you could have a vision like that it would make the world different. You’d live like a fiend, like a possessed man.